Incentives
Just scaled 26, 000. At 27, 000 I get to type up the epilogue that came to me the other night and ended up on paper, get to shower and go shopping :)
Hope: to reach 30, 000 by tomorrow. I think I'll 29, 000 the target for phoning the Jazz Club to book entry for Sunday night's soul gig. I did email about vocalists at the Classical Rock Jam, let's see if I get a reply!
Sometimes, when you’re worrying about something you have to wait a very long time to be able to sort it out. Sometimes you don’t. Warda was walking down towards the river, to fetch flatbreads but also to spend a bit of time watching boats go out and in and up and down and hope that some of them would carry her cares away, when suddenly something once again collided with her knees.
“Well, fancy meeting you...”
“Come on!” Sammi didn’t give her chance to finish her witty remark, instead grabbing her by the hand and dragging her on towards the river. Warda had to catch her skirts up again and hold onto the headscarf she had tied around to protect her hair from the breeze on the bank.
“What do you mean?” she managed, once she’d got her pace up to that of her surprisingly swift captor.
But Sammi refused to speak. She led Warda further away from home, through as many twisting alleys as she could find, sometimes doubling back on themselves until she felt safe enough to break out onto the wide road that ran along the river front. The main part of the city, on the west bank, was protected from the rise and fall of the waters by huge stone walls, still faintly bearing the magical sigils that had got them there. Some people worried that when the sigils had worn away, the rocks would collapse, and that would be the beginning of the end. Other people argued they were huge bloody rocks that it had taken magic to put in place, and they’d stayed pretty still for hundreds of cycles, hadn’t they? These were the people who believed as the Shar believed, which was the safest kind of person to be, most of the time.
Along the top ran a very smooth road, with beautiful wrought iron lamps at near intervals. Craftsman were still trying to emulate the style, but they said they couldn’t get the fires hot enough, even with the few alchemical recipes that had survived. Salamander’s Coals were a thing of the past, they said, and the ignitable liquids just couldn’t keep it consistent enough. Warda would often spend ages staring at their delicate whorls and fronds, but not today. Today she was being dragged at break-neck speed, dodging in between tramping mules and dawdling courtships towards the Bridge of Time. It too was a magical structure which linked both sides of the river, the only one left. The symbols on it’s flanks were said to be a great spell of power, possibly the one with which to rule over the whole of Jahayna. Others said it was a warning, left by those who were fortunate enough not to know that knowledge of the sigils would disappear along with the knowledge of the power that wrought them. Still others thought they were probably the names of the sorcerers or sorceresses who built it. They believed their magical ancestors were a vain lot who had sealed themselves and their powers away on purpose, believing themselves as important as the Gods themselves. Warda had always hoped this wasn’t true. They called it the Bridge of Time in hope of the first theory, that it would not only link the working side of the river with the side that was once mostly for Faith and Leadership (but now had more and more residences rising by the day), but that it was also the link to that great and glorious past, if only someone could decipher it.
“Silly superstitions!” Warda thought with a chuckle, just before she tripped on a loose stone. But Sammi ignored her cry and ran on and on across the bridge. She seemed to be looking more manic by the moment, so Warda bent herself to the task and ran as fast as her usually stationary legs would carry her.
The smell from the far side reached her before they came out onto the smaller shored-up area of the east bank. The grandest boats to sail the Hayamutah were ceremonial barges, which were more wide than tall, so the east bank had been allowed to stay mostly a muddy slope into to water. Or perhaps the Ancestors just hadn’t cared much for the sandy marshes belonging to the fishers and poorer labourers of the city. There were records of one particular sorceress who was benevolent and used her powers to try and heal the sick and feed those who were hungry, but Jarihya the Gentle was more often mocked than admired. Saint Tharig and his pupils were renowned for crafting the temple of Garatha and its complex, while his greatest rival and later lover Saint Qamitara and her own followers lovingly erected Vistara’s Quarter. Saint Maskilus had been ordained for fighting on the frontier against a great serpent (or in some stories a hoard of serpant men) who had threatened to over-run the city. Saint Idgar had been beatified for renouncing his magic altogether and withstanding hideous torture rather than giving its secrets to an enemy of the Shar. Not many children were named Jarihya anymore. If they were, they were thought of as soft. As soft as marsh mud.
Sammi’s hand snapped out of Warda’s. She was stuck.
Hope: to reach 30, 000 by tomorrow. I think I'll 29, 000 the target for phoning the Jazz Club to book entry for Sunday night's soul gig. I did email about vocalists at the Classical Rock Jam, let's see if I get a reply!
Sometimes, when you’re worrying about something you have to wait a very long time to be able to sort it out. Sometimes you don’t. Warda was walking down towards the river, to fetch flatbreads but also to spend a bit of time watching boats go out and in and up and down and hope that some of them would carry her cares away, when suddenly something once again collided with her knees.
“Well, fancy meeting you...”
“Come on!” Sammi didn’t give her chance to finish her witty remark, instead grabbing her by the hand and dragging her on towards the river. Warda had to catch her skirts up again and hold onto the headscarf she had tied around to protect her hair from the breeze on the bank.
“What do you mean?” she managed, once she’d got her pace up to that of her surprisingly swift captor.
But Sammi refused to speak. She led Warda further away from home, through as many twisting alleys as she could find, sometimes doubling back on themselves until she felt safe enough to break out onto the wide road that ran along the river front. The main part of the city, on the west bank, was protected from the rise and fall of the waters by huge stone walls, still faintly bearing the magical sigils that had got them there. Some people worried that when the sigils had worn away, the rocks would collapse, and that would be the beginning of the end. Other people argued they were huge bloody rocks that it had taken magic to put in place, and they’d stayed pretty still for hundreds of cycles, hadn’t they? These were the people who believed as the Shar believed, which was the safest kind of person to be, most of the time.
Along the top ran a very smooth road, with beautiful wrought iron lamps at near intervals. Craftsman were still trying to emulate the style, but they said they couldn’t get the fires hot enough, even with the few alchemical recipes that had survived. Salamander’s Coals were a thing of the past, they said, and the ignitable liquids just couldn’t keep it consistent enough. Warda would often spend ages staring at their delicate whorls and fronds, but not today. Today she was being dragged at break-neck speed, dodging in between tramping mules and dawdling courtships towards the Bridge of Time. It too was a magical structure which linked both sides of the river, the only one left. The symbols on it’s flanks were said to be a great spell of power, possibly the one with which to rule over the whole of Jahayna. Others said it was a warning, left by those who were fortunate enough not to know that knowledge of the sigils would disappear along with the knowledge of the power that wrought them. Still others thought they were probably the names of the sorcerers or sorceresses who built it. They believed their magical ancestors were a vain lot who had sealed themselves and their powers away on purpose, believing themselves as important as the Gods themselves. Warda had always hoped this wasn’t true. They called it the Bridge of Time in hope of the first theory, that it would not only link the working side of the river with the side that was once mostly for Faith and Leadership (but now had more and more residences rising by the day), but that it was also the link to that great and glorious past, if only someone could decipher it.
“Silly superstitions!” Warda thought with a chuckle, just before she tripped on a loose stone. But Sammi ignored her cry and ran on and on across the bridge. She seemed to be looking more manic by the moment, so Warda bent herself to the task and ran as fast as her usually stationary legs would carry her.
The smell from the far side reached her before they came out onto the smaller shored-up area of the east bank. The grandest boats to sail the Hayamutah were ceremonial barges, which were more wide than tall, so the east bank had been allowed to stay mostly a muddy slope into to water. Or perhaps the Ancestors just hadn’t cared much for the sandy marshes belonging to the fishers and poorer labourers of the city. There were records of one particular sorceress who was benevolent and used her powers to try and heal the sick and feed those who were hungry, but Jarihya the Gentle was more often mocked than admired. Saint Tharig and his pupils were renowned for crafting the temple of Garatha and its complex, while his greatest rival and later lover Saint Qamitara and her own followers lovingly erected Vistara’s Quarter. Saint Maskilus had been ordained for fighting on the frontier against a great serpent (or in some stories a hoard of serpant men) who had threatened to over-run the city. Saint Idgar had been beatified for renouncing his magic altogether and withstanding hideous torture rather than giving its secrets to an enemy of the Shar. Not many children were named Jarihya anymore. If they were, they were thought of as soft. As soft as marsh mud.
Sammi’s hand snapped out of Warda’s. She was stuck.